


City Crumbling, Salt-Sorrow Waves

by yet_intrepid



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 00:43:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1139432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faramir goes down to the shores to escape his father. He finds there a musician who, after thousands of years, is still trying to escape his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	City Crumbling, Salt-Sorrow Waves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nimueailinen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimueailinen/gifts).



The Steward’s family went down to Dol Amroth on the Bay of Belfalas the summer that Faramir was fifteen. Boromir quickly made friends there, while Faramir mostly kept to himself. Because of this, Boromir found himself invited on a sailing trip for the last week of their stay. It was clear that the invitation did not include his brother.

Faramir did not let Boromir argue the point. He was not exactly eager to be left with his father, but Denethor was occupied enough with the nobles of Dol Amroth that he would not notice Faramir slipping away now and again.

 After a particularly long and trying dinner midway through the week, it seemed that Denethor would call upon him to read aloud. This was his father’s preferred way to nap, and Faramir was not sure whether he should be complimented or insulted. Knowing his father, it was likely an insult, a sign that he considered Faramir’s reading to be unbearably dull.

But Prince Imrahil appeared with a question for Denethor and as they fell into conversation Faramir seized his chance. He fled the city and made for the shore.

And there, determined yet aimless, he walked.

As dusk fell, he came upon low crags, but even in the growing dark he was nimble and trusted his feet in their thin shoes. As he wove among the crumbling rocks, climbing a bit when required, he felt music in his step—music low and thrumming and voiceless, music as of an ancient harp.

He rounded a corner and saw a cleft in the rock. Just as he did, a voice joined the music and Faramir stood still as a frozen wave.

It was Elvish, but not the Elvish he studied with his tutor. It was prouder and heavier and he felt he could hardly bear the weight of it, but all the same he could not stay away. The sadness drew him like a city crumbling, like a ship slipping under the sea.

Faramir looked into the cave.

There sat an elf on a rock, his dark hair hiding his face as his hands caressed the strings of his harp. His clothes were fine, but badly worn, and his boots bore the marks of long travel. But his music—oh, his music.

The music was old memories that still smarted (“you are a disgrace”) and beauty that was lost (his mother kissing him goodnight) and gentleness that no longer existed (once, his father had taken him on his lap). The music was waves of salt-sorrow crashing over his head and he wanted to drown in it and he wanted to be reverently silent forever and he wanted to speak all the things he was never allowed to say.

He was stepping closer, and the Elvish that he knew was on his tongue for his use. As the song began to fade, he spoke.

“If I could play as you do, perhaps my father would not find me useless.”

The elf played two last chords and looked up at Faramir, weighing him with a glance. “Many years and much sorrow have gone into the making of my songs,” he answered. “I would not wish that upon a lad such as you. In any case, fathers—they are very difficult to please.”

Faramir swallowed. “He is easily enough pleased with my brother. I think the fault is my own.”

The elf gave a soft noise of understanding, then gestured to the rock beside him. “Come,” he said, “and tell me your name.”

Faramir sat down on the rock. “I am Faramir son of Denethor.”

“And why have you come to the shore, Faramir son of Denethor?”

“Because my brother is off sailing, and I did not wish to be left alone with my father.”

The elf smiled bitterly. “I always strove to avoid that myself. Have you only the one brother?”

“Yes,” said Faramir, “and my mother is dead.”

“I had six brothers,” said the elf. “They are dead. And I do not know what is become of my mother. –You are not, I think, the eldest.”

“No.”

The elf nodded. “I too was the second-born, and my father did not love my music. He was a craftsman, a maker of jewels, and he wished us to be like him.”

Faramir’s brow creased. “But your music is—it’s—it is a soul in sound, and far beyond my words. Who could despise you for it? That is not right.”

“Fathers,” said the elf, “are not always right. Sometimes they ask of their sons deeds which are foolish, rash, and harmful. Learn this, son of Denethor, and you will be wise beyond your few years.”

“But,” said Faramir, slowly, “do I not owe my father love and respect?”

“There are many kinds of love and respect, and not all of them include agreement.” The elf ran a hand over the wood of his harp. “Indeed, is it not more loving to do what is right for all, rather than to blindly follow? Such is true commitment to the wellbeing of another. And such I did not learn in time to do. Only late, nigh an age after the death of my father, did I cast aside the hateful goal to which, for his sake, I had bound myself.”

“Yet you did cast it aside,” said Faramir.

“I did,” said the elf. “Faramir son of Denethor, hear me. Desire not power or glorious jewels. They are fountains of sorrow and strife. Should you find them by the roadside, take them not, and should your father ask them of you, though it be to keep your homeland from crumbling, rather let them be cast into the sea.”

“I do not want power,” Faramir said. “I have never wanted it.”

“Yet you desire the love of your father,” said the elf, and Faramir bowed his head.

“So did I,” the elf continued, “and thus I aided him in his war over the stones that he loved more than aught else. It won me only guilt and loneliness and grief, son of Denethor. It killed my brothers and destroyed my people. Serving a father’s love of power and glory will not win that love for you, not at a price worth paying.”

Night was falling. The stars were very clear as they looked together into the West, across the breaking waves. The elf began to touch his harp-strings again, weaving music of the air and visions of the music, and Faramir thought that he would like to walk out into the sea and never return.

He was the ship slipping under the waves. He was the city crumbling from longing.

But he straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin and told himself he would learn to rebuild.


End file.
